Professor Riddle and the Quest for Tenure
by Zalgo Jenkins
Summary: More than two decades ago, Headmaster Dippet made the fateful decision to hire Tom Riddle as an associate Hogwarts professor. And now, at last, Riddle's double life as Lord Voldemort is threatening to bring the Wizarding World to its knees…if only he can convince his students to leave him alone.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I haven't decided whether this will be one that I'll continue or not. The idea struck me, though, so I thought I'd at least write a chapter. Never say never.

* * *

**Professor Riddle and the Quest for Tenure**

**1971  
**

I'd always had a special fondness for Classroom 3C.

The new students were silent for once – an improvement that was owed in part to my decision to hang wool drapes over the windows. Winter was coming. The brats were entirely too fond of shouting _"snow."_

While the students inspected the classroom, I inspected them. Some, like the greasy little boy in tattered robes, I recognized from the Slytherin table. Others, I didn't.

A red-haired Gryffindor female was gaping at the shrunken head collection. She froze when she looked up, and then positively _gasped_. She poked the Slytherin boy. Together, they stared at the dragon skeleton suspended above them.

Mudblood. Undoubtedly. She had that odor about her – the bouncing, cherry-blush-and-dimpled stench of an indulgent family. I'd seen her kind often enough outside the orphanage as a boy. So very _secure_, those people.

I recognized Sirius Black rather sooner. I'd noticed him during my visits to the Black Estate – a lanky boy, whose hair hung over his eyes. What little I knew came from his cousin, and it didn't fill me with confidence. But then, Bella hated everyone.

I flicked my wand. A wardrobe rolled into the center of the room. Its wheels squeaked.

Even with the wool drapes, one could see the cloud of dust that it left in the air. It was aged oak, and had warped somewhere along the line. The walls were curved. The half-moon carving along its top had twisted.

"Who among you knows what a boggart is?" I said. "O'Grady?"

He didn't answer. I caressed my wand, feeling its wood grains roll against my palm.

"O'Grady? You _are_ O'Grady, aren't you? If you've switched seats to confuse me like Flora and Bertrand tried to, I will be _very _displeased."

No answer. The boy's breaths came in smooth, regular cycles.

I sighed.

"_Flipendo_."

O'Grady rocketed out of his chair. His back collided with the ground. A pair of glasses skittered to my feet, and enchanted eyes stared up at me through the lenses.

"Stealth Snoozing Glasses, Mr. O'Grady?" I said.

The boy stared at me, open-mouthed and rigid. I allowed my voice to slide into a quieter pitch.

"Perhaps you believe that my class is an opportunity to catch up on your _sleep_, Mr. O'Grady?"

"I—I'm s-sorry, Professor. I d-didn't mean to—"

"Then we shall have to keep you awake. Won't we, Mr. O'Grady?"

"But—"

"_Tarantallegra_."

After I'd re-positioned Mr. O'Grady in the far corner of the room (and cast a silencing spell so that his compulsive dancing didn't distract the rest of the class), I proceeded.

"…Hem. A boggart is a shapeshifter. While not strictly nocturnal, they prefer dark places: cupboards, dressers, and, on at least one occasion, a grandfather clock. Who can tell me a boggart's greatest strength?"

Silence.

Well, then. Time for cold calling. While I preferred not to start this early in the semes—wait.

"Mr. Black?" I said.

"I dunno, Sir."

"Then what the-Why did you raise your _hand_?"

"I need to use the loo, Sir."

I resisted the urge to grit my teeth.

"Go _ahead_, Mr. Black. And in the future, do not interrupt my lectures to—"

"Never mind, Sir. Changed my mind. I can wait."

I felt a slight fizzle on the end of my wand, but restrained myself. A few chairs creaked. Good. At least the students were paying attention to the lecture.

I cleared my throat.

"The boggart relies on _fear_," I said. "It will transform into your deepest—Yes? What _is_ it, Black?"

"Just stretching, Sir."

"Put it down or lose it."

The door opened before Sirius Black had the opportunity to test me on the point. A boy stood in the doorway.

Ah, yes. _Potter_.

Heir Apparent James Potter, of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Potter. Et cetera. The collar under his robe was crumpled. His tie was so loose that it seemed more a thicket than anything – an orange-and-black-striped Gordian knot. Thick, round glasses tilted just a bit to the left. Nevertheless, Potter's hair betrayed meticulous combing.

I glanced at the clock.

"You're twenty minutes late, Mr. Potter."

He gave me one of those square-jawed, Tom-Brown's-Schooldays grins. I would come to know them well in the coming months.

"A wizard is never late, Professor," he said. "Nor is he early. He arrives _precisely_ when he means to."

A scattering of giggles came from the Muggleborns.

Muggle literary references, you see, were rather "hip" in those days – especially among the rebellious sort. Tolkien's drivel had become particularly popular. It had spread from the Muggle countercultural movement to Wizarding Britain like an epidemic in a virgin field. As is usually the case, the Mudbloods had been the plague rats.

Nor, apparently, had Pureblood status stopped the likes of Mr. Potter from parroting it.

I donned a smile and glided behind him, resting my hands on either side of his neck. His shoulders tightened. I caught myself pausing for a moment – my fingers _did _seem thinner and longer than a few months back. No matter. I tightened them, massaging the boy's neck and shoulders until he flinched.

"_Never laugh at live dragons_, Mr. Potter."

He glared, but I caught a subtle shiver running down his spine.

"Do I make myself clear?" I said.

"Yes, Sir."

"Very well," I said. "Sit down."

He did. I unclenched my hands just a fraction.

"_Now_ then," I said. "Boggarts are dangerous because—WHAT DO YOU WANT, BLACK?!"

"Permission to use the loo after all, Sir?"

I turned to a boa constrictor-sized viper curled under my desk.

Rather like Mr. O'Grady, Nagini used my classes to catch up on her sleep. Also like Mr. O'Grady, she was occasionally disappointed. She got mice out of the deal, though.

"Nagini. Kill."

Nagini's upper body seemed to coil in a shrug. She lunged.

With a scream, Black tore down the aisle. Parchment flew. Desks banged. A Slytherin stuck out his foot, nearly sending Black toppling. A desk squealed across the floorboards as Black grabbed it and righted himself.

He scrambled to the door, threw it open, and ran down the third floor hallway. His footsteps echoed off the tan stone walls. Nagini stopped at the door.

For a serpent, she had an inexplicable knack for giving me sardonic glares.

"_Ssssooner or later, they're going to figure out that I can't actually eat them."_

Fortunately, today was not that day. She slithered back under my desk.

"Ahem," I said. "Moving on…

The lesson proceeded smoothly from there. I explained that boggarts took the shape of one's worst fear. The first-years learned the Boggart-Banishing Spell in record time. Soon, they were working in assembly line fashion. The boggart would charge, the student would shout _"riddikulus"_, and the boggart would transform into a parody of itself. Dragons became pink and furry. Snakes acquired roller skates. Vampires acquired buck teeth.

I was gratified to learn that half the class seemed to consider me its worst fear. By and large, I could even tolerate the obnoxious results of the _riddikulus_ curse. A few exceptions applied, though.

"Mr. McMillan, imagining a Dark Arts professor engaging in that sort of behavior is not appropriate, even in self defense. _Spiculum._"

"Ow!"

"Also, detention. You too, Miss Rosier. Don't think I missed you staring and panting."

By now, the boggart must have been wearing down. Its "Professor Riddles" were increasingly emaciated, garbed in fraying robes.

Perhaps to avoid the inevitable, it launched itself directly at me.

I grant the boggart this: it was both creative and persistent.

Around it whirled from one form to the next. A raven with glossy wings. A marble statue of a toga-clad woman with empty, staring eyes. A black void. A sword. Sand-swept remains of Pharaoh Ozymandias's statue. A corpse. The will-o-wisp glow of the _Avada Kedavra_. Physical traces left by something that was, by definition, absent.

The thing howled. Light filtered through its skin. The process continued until it became nearly transparent. And then, it faded into the air, as if it had never existed at all.

Oh, it _was_ creative. Even so, I could still see the occasional glimmer of its magic. A _riddikulus_ almost would have been redundant, but I fired one anyway. The air warped and whined as it retreated.

And so, with a word, I closed the trunk. Locks clacked. Bolts _schlunked_.

The class was silent for a moment.

"Um...What was all that with the boggart, Professor?"

I smiled.

"The only thing worth being afraid of, Mr. Snape," I said.

And with that, the bell rang.

* * *

I watched the class file out. Young Snape might have been a half-blood, but I'd seen some talent there, too. A promising candidate for the Defense Study Group. Perhaps.

A man waited in the back of the room.

I'd seen him enter when Black had escaped, but hadn't felt the need to comment.

He had light brown hair that was already thinning, but the long wisps covered it on the top well enough. He leaned on what I could generously call a staff: gnarled, knotted, and about five feet long. It roughly matched the color of his leather trench coat. As for the rest, imagine a beadier-eyed Oliver Cromwell. And then, imagine a few more scars.

"Professor," he said.

As he proceeded up the rows, his silhouette was reflected in the polished oak desktops. He walked with his hands behind his back - a wide-shouldered gait that reminded one of a sea captain.

"Mr…Moody, isn't it?" I said. "You're the one leading the Death Eater investigation, I hear."

He nodded.

"I am," he said. "And you're the Minister's Dark Arts consultant. So-called."

I forced a smile into place.

Moody thrust out a hand. A scar ran lengthwise from the space between his ring and middle fingers to his wrist. It disappeared into his sleeve. Several more marked his face. One was pink enough to be recent: a vertical slash across his cheek. Durmstrang-trained _mensur _work, by the look of it.

When I shook Moody's hand, I felt callouses.

"Er, yes," I said. "I was under the impression that we would meet _formally_ in a few days, but I'm not averse to—"

"That was an interesting display you put on with the Potter boy," he said. "The passage you quoted. Legilimency?"

I snorted.

"You overestimate the average delinquent," I said. "I'd be surprised if he's actually _read_ the books beyond a smattering of quotes."

Moody attempted a smile – a crooked expression.

"Doing a little summer reading yourself, then, Professor?"

I shrugged.

"Whatever the students may think, professors do not come out of the womb fully formed."

A succinct but incomplete explanation. In the year before I'd come to Hogarts, a rotund boy named Dennis Bishop had brought a copy of _The Hobbit_ to our orphanage. I suspect that he'd purloined it from a library.

The previous owners – whoever they'd been – had liberally applied tea stains to the book's dulling teal covers. A few pages had been torn. Somehow, though, the wear-and-tear had not reached the picture of a fire-drake on its cover, drawn in black ink. The dragon had snaked its way across the front so convincingly that you could almost fancy its bat-wings flapping, or that the triangular scales on its back were undulating.

I'd stolen it.

Not to be outdone, Dennis had extracted a threefold price for my theft: a swollen lip, a black eye, and a heavily torn book. No matter, though. I'd charged him more interest on that transaction than he could afford, so to speak.

I must have still owned the book's remains somewhere, buried in my pile of trunks and crates. Just _where_ wasn't particularly relevant. Dennis didn't have it, and _that_ is the point.

Moody was staring. Most people will avert their eyes every few seconds during a conversation, if only to reduce the tension. Moody glared as if he was inviting Legilimency.

"I read your report," Moody said. "The one the Minister ordered."

"I'm flattered. Now that we're both on the same page, perhaps—"

"Can't agree with your conclusions, though," Moody said.

I raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"That bit about the centralized command structure," he said. "Don't believe it. Wouldn't work. Not with the Death Eaters."

"Grindelwald operated that way back in '45—"

"And lost," he said. "No...Grindelwald did big-budget stuff. Major attacks. Control freak, too. This 'Voldemort' character operates on too many fronts at once. His teams must work independently, with Voldemort giving general directives."

I wondered whether my smoothed facial features constituted tells in and of themselves. Not that most would have noticed. Legilimency makes our Aurors so _very_ lazy compared to their Muggle counterparts…

"Quaint theory, but—"

"I'd expect _you_ of all people to understand," he said.

"Er…sorry?" I said.

Moody chuckled for the first time, and flopped into my professor's chair. He pulled out a silver flask. It glistened when it passed across a shaft of light from between the curtains.

"Modest, aren't ye?" he said. "Y'know, Riddle, I did some summer reading of my own."

"You don't say?"

He jabbed the air with his flask.

"Muggle academic journal. Couldn't understand half of it. Something political. But I found an anonymously submitted article called _Reflections on Left-Wing Terrorism in Brazil_…"

I was thankful that most of my body hair had fallen out, since I suspected Moody would have noticed it prickling up. I kept my voice dry.

"Fascinating," I said. "And where did you _hear_ about this—"

Moody took a swig, and then waved me off.

"Long story, Professor," he said. "Alarmist headmistress at the Salem Institute contacted me. Found a copy of a Muggle paper called the _Berkeley Tribe_ in the dorms. Subscribers list turned up a few odds n' ends. Not important."

"But how _exactly_ did—"

"So I dug around a bit more," he continued.

Moody leaned forward. His breath smelled of alcohol – a stench he channeled into my face by putting his hand to his mouth "confidentially".

"And what d'ye think I found?" he said. "Well? There's this tall, thin, academic-looking man poking around Brazilian jails a few years back. Mebbe a year before the first Death Eater attacks. Says he's looking for ALN terrorists. And nobody can remember what his face looks like. Odd, eh?"

I rolled my eyes, and forced my voice level.

"I fail to see the relevance," I said. "Perhaps you should have reported this to the Slender Man Taskforce at the Ministry?"

He prodded me with one of his sausage-shaped fingers.

"Oi," he said. "Don't _joke_ about Slendy. At any rate, what d'you think I heard from my German counterparts a few months ago?"

"No idea."

"Seems our mystery man's been asking questions about the Baader-Meinhoff group now," he said. "Somebody's swapping recipes."

"So?"

Moody smirked.

"Most people would have asked 'What's Baader-Meinhoff?' but never mind," he said. "You know what I think, Riddle? I think _someone_ in Voldemort's inner circle is Muggleborn or halfblood."

_"He sssssuspectsssss…." _Nagini whispered from behind the desk.

I mentally screamed at her to keep quiet. Moody knew she was _there_, of course, but he doubtless also knew that I was a Parselmouth. Even if Moody couldn't understand Parseltongue…

_…Probably_ couldn't understand Parseltongue…

"Funny," Moody said. "You remember Nobby Leach? First Muggle Minister of Magic before you and your pal Abraxas kicked him out?"

"As I recall, Nobby resigned before I took my seat on the Wizengamot."

"I wasn't referring to your _official_ actions," he said. "Anyway, ol' Nobby brought all sorts of interesting ideas into the Auror Office. Like personality profiling."

I didn't need to work hard to conjure up a sneer.

"Muggle nonsense," I said. "Though I imagine it would be a good diversion for a rainy afternoon. You might as well look for Voldemort's name in a Sunday crossword."

Moody chuckled again and nodded. He slapped his hands on his leather jacket and jumped out of his chair. It creaked.

"Ohhh, likely as not you're right, Professor," he said. "They didn't give us much to go on, anyway."

He pulled me close and affected a suppressed laugh. Ye Powers, his breath reeked of distilled spirits.

"You would've enjoyed their descriptions of Voldemort, though," he said. "Halfblood or Muggle-born, they said! Ha! Highly educated, suffering from a – whatsit called – an 'attachment disorder', 'impulse control' problems, fear of death, hoarding, trophy collecting, probably an orphan…"

He smiled. I swear his eyes twinkled when he glanced at the pile of rare books, basilisk scales, brass amulets, and other assorted bric-a-brac that I'd piled into the far end of the room.

"…Nonsense, eh?" he said.

"Er, yes."

He slapped me on the back.

"Well, I'll leave you to your work, Professor," he said. "Until our 'official' meeting."

"Um…until then…"

"Sorry? Didn't catch that," he said.

I cleared my throat.

"Ah, yes," I said. "Until then."

The door's hinges squealed as he stepped out. I waited until long after Moody's hummed rendition of _Melbrick's Reel_ disappeared down the corridor. And then, I waited a while longer.

* * *

Finally, I let my muscles relax with a shudder.

I summoned a mirror, and adjusted my robes. When I inspected my reflection, the shadows accentuated what I'd been noticing for a while now: a gaunt face, thinning hair, and a nose already retreating into vestigial irrelevance. The eyes were cloudy.

_"Sssso handsssssome,"_ Nagini whispered. _"And sssssuch a wassssste on the Black sisssster."_

"Jealousy is not an attractive quality, Nagini."

_"The barren sssssssow can't even give you hatchlingsssss. Not that ssssshe would __choose__ to, either…"_

Silk swished against silk as I secured my tie.

Bellatrix was the least of my problems. The meeting that night at Grimmauld Place would entwine two threads that I'd long tried to keep separate: the terrorist campaign against the Mudblood sympathizers, and my own candidacy in the still-distant Ministerial elections. Admittedly, both operations shared some of the same staff.

"Bellatrix recognizes that the marriage is political," I said. "Even if she's unenthusiastic about my Muggle heritage behind closed doors—"

_"Heh, heh, heh. Hatesssss your gutsssss. Too bad you can't tell her about your...extracurricular activitiessssss, isssssn't it?"_

"That's one way of putting it."

"_Oh, and it looksssssss like you'll need your Time-Turner tonight."_

I glared down. Nagini held an envelope in her mouth. The malicious glint in her eye did not escape my notice. I straightened my collar a final time and snatched the envelope.

_ "Messsssage for you,"_ Nagini said.

"Don't tell me..." I grumbled.

I opened it.

With a heavy sensation sinking into my gut with each leaden paragraph, I scanned the parchment. I've often thought that Wizarding education places its educators between Scylla and Charybdis. Professors must teach prepubescent slobberers while they _also _participate in the peer review process.

Of the two, I concede a greater fondness for the prepubescent slobberers.

* * *

**_The Petrified Heraclitus: Neo-Marxism, Modernism, and Quasi-Magical Ways of Being in Situational Tension_**

_by R. J. C. Brunhilda von Knox-Browne, Magi.D._

_Department of Magical Literature, Salem Institute_

_1. Quasi-Magical Ways of Being in the Dialectical Narrative Context_

_In the works of Bainbridge, a predominant concept is the distinction between apparition and disapparition. Flay's analysis of dialectical narrative states that the task of the spellcaster is the significant form. But the characteristic theme of Brunevald's [1] critique of mythopoetical totality verges on Grindelwaldian hubris._

_If one examines the dialectic narrative, one is therefore faced with a choice: either accept Sanguinity or conclude that Muggles are capable of intent, but only if consciousness is interchangeable with both narrativity and alchemical compliance. The Muggle scholar Roland Barthes [2] further urges…_

* * *

"Just kill me now," I muttered.


	2. Chapter 2

I arrived at a row of red brick apartment-style houses that looked dark brown in the streetlamps' light. Apartments eleven and thirteen shifted with a loud grinding sound. Twelve Grimmauld Place rose from the gap between them, distinguished from its brothers only by a blue door and a sharper iron fence.

A woman stepped out of the gloom behind me. Or at least, it _appeared _to be a woman. Her eyes glinted like solid marbles, almost black-on-black.

I barely managed to avoid rolling my eyes.

"Nagini…" I said.

She quirked an eyebrow. The ends of her mouth twitched upward.

_"Mmmh?"_ she said.

"I've warned you about killing Muggles and taking their bodies," I said. "Repeatedly."

Nagini shrugged the corpse's shoulders, and then twirled around, showing off legs, a low neckline, and skin of an unnatural pallor. She preened its long black hair. The body had one of those newer "natural" styles rather than a bun – the sort where the hair hangs down like a curtain. It caught the moonlight's sheen as she let it cascade down her shoulders.

_"Doesssss it look good on me? It's fresssssssh..."_

"That's hardly the issue. There's the minor matter of Muggle missing persons reports, not to mention the dim view that the Ministry takes of Muggle disappearances involving—"

_"I wouldn't want to look unfassssshionable for your trophy-wife-to-be, would I?"_

"Oh, not _this_ again."

The door opened. A House-Elf glared up at me, draped in a gray pillowcase. Its face was craggier and more angular than most. When it saw me, it froze.

"You."

"Get your master, Kreacher," I said.

"Filthy half-blood ordering the Master and Mistress's servants around in their own home," it said. "Not to mention the Master and Mistress themselves…"

I sighed. It continued.

"…Bringing his Muggle diseases and Muggle ways into the House of Black. Endangering the Master and Mistress with his creepy-crawly _thieving_. Killing good Pureblood families. Families who are worth a hundred of _his _sort. Kreacher knows that Riddle's a dirty liar who's using Master and Mistress for his own—"

"_Crucio_."

While Kreacher rolled on the ground gargling, I poked my head inside. A slightly portly man with light blue eyes and a black robe bustled down from the steps.

Huh. So the Malfoys were here as well.

"Ah. Abraxas," I said. "So good to see you. And Cygnus is…?"

Abraxas panted. I assume from his reddened face that he'd been sprinting to meet us.

"Parlor…sorry…Didn't…expect you…so early…and the House Elf didn't—Ohhhhhh."

He glanced at Kreacher, who continued to thrash. His body jerked up and down as I bounced the wand absentmindedly.

"You'll be joining us for dinner, then?" I said.

"If it pleases you, My Lord. We have an announcement," he said.

"Ah."

Abraxas smiled. Sweat glistened when his cheeks moved. He peered through the doorway.

"I see you've brought a guest of your own?" he said.

And then, he got a better look. Abraxas stiffened to the roots of his white-blond goatee when he saw Nagini.

"Of course, Abraxas," I said. "How rude of me. Nagini, this is Abraxas Malfoy. You met him once – he brought you a mouse, if I recall. Abraxas, allow me to introduce you to the Muggle body that Nagini's wearing tonight."

Abraxas brow furrowed slightly. He fiddled with his beard.

"That's…um…"

"—Exactly as disturbing as it sounds, yes," I said. "But I'm afraid Nagini is rather _vain_ about her appearance. I often suspect she'd do anything for a compliment."

"Uh…" he said.

"_Anything_. For. A. Compliment," I said.

Kreacher shrieked again.

The sound seemed to jolt Abraxas out of his reverie. He coughed.

"Um, nice…Muggle?" he tried.

Nagini's eyes sparkled. She gave a low curtsey.

We stepped inside.

A life-sized portrait of Waldburga Black gave me a curt nod. The figure was dressed in that late-Medieval finery that Purebloods seem to hold in such high regard.

She wore a black hennin with a tricorn visor on the front, which did little to hide her jaundiced skin. Waldburga's hair was arranged in two elaborate buns. They stuck out a bit like Muggle television antennae, and corresponded to two further bulbs on her headdress. Lines of white, puff-ball looking ornaments completed the absurdity.

She ducked out of the picture frame as soon as possible.

We walked down a long hallway with a chandelier. Gas lamps hissed softly. Nagini almost stumbled on the troll-leg umbrella stand, unaccustomed as she was to her current body.

We passed by a row of shrunken elf-heads mounted on plaques. I noted the other paraphernalia with passing interest: a crystal vial filled with blood, silver boxes scrawled with Theban script, and one of Cygnus's steel tweezer-spiders, whose purpose I could never figure out. It squeaked and skittered under a suit of armor.

We entered the dining room, where the remaining assortment of Blacks and Malfoys greeted us with bows and curtseys.

I spotted Bellatrix standing by a series of shelves that held china stamped with the Black Crest. She wore a dress woven with black agate. It set off her black hair and pale skin rather well. The dress itself looked somewhat Victorian. Her abnormally slim waistline suggested a corset. Bellatrix _was_ very slender, in that Medieval damsel way that Purebloods prized, but not quite _that_ thin. She only nodded.

House Elves emerged from a winding staircase. Steam and smoke billowed from the kitchen at the stairs' base. Cygnus had assured me that they still prepared things in the old way: spitted meat and giant iron cauldrons that the House Elves raised or lowered on chains to regulate the temperature.

We sat down.

Cygnus Black situated me at the head of the table, with Nagini on my left and Bellatrix on my right. Druella sat on Bellatrix's other side – presumably to prevent her daughter from saying something rash. Bella's breath carried sickly-sweet traces of opium smoke, though alcohol masked most of it.

The candles flickered. The best Pureblood dinners evoke a hazy, dreamlike atmosphere. Time flows oddly.

House-Elves spread a tablecloth, set out utensils, and positioned silver saltcellars, cups, and mazers. I dipped my fingers in the ewer's scented water. Another Elf offered a towel.

I was soon presented with a first course: a sugary, thick dish of chicken paste, rice, and almond milk garnished with fried almonds and anise. Kreacher presented Bellatrix with what appeared to be a dumpling made of pounded, poached fish, breadcrumbs, and possibly eggs. Mortrews, I think.

We spent awhile trading riddles. It's a rather childish custom among the Pureblooded, but Nagini seemed to enjoy herself. (Not that she'd admit it.) Like most serpents, Nagini had always had a taste for word-games – one that I could rarely indulge.

Nagini correctly guessed most of the answers through my Parseltongue translations. She even came up with the winning riddle herself:

_I brood in darkness before coming into the world  
Gathering my strength for a single purpose  
I can eat only a piece of you, and then spit you out whole._

The other players' guesses ranged from predictably stupid ("Snake!") to prurient ("a womb" was Bellatrix's contribution). The answer, if you haven't guessed, was polyjuice potion.

Narcissa Black – Bella's younger sister – was practically hanging on Abraxas's son Lucius. They made what the Muggles call a photogenic couple: Lucius's long, white-blond hair contrasted with his father's thinning comb-over, and he'd apparently avoided his father's figure with Quidditch. So far. Narcissa's own blonde hair even matched Lucius's. They shared a dish. Lucius broke the bread before passing it to Narcissa.

"My congratulations," I said.

They looked up.

"Pardon, Professor?"

"Your engagement," I said. "That _was_ what you were going to announce, I believe?"

Suitably appreciative gasps came from around the table. I answered the chorus of _how-did-you-knows_ with my best Dumbledore smile. Semi-autonomous Death Eater cells are almost as adept at reporting on each other as they are on their enemies. Besides, it never hurts to look omniscient.

Druella Black beamed at Lucius and Narcissa.

"That's why I'm _so_ _very glad_ that you're opposing those blood-traitors in the Wizengamot, Professor Riddle," she said. "I—ah—I mean…Your pardon. M-may I call you Professor Riddle, or do you prefer—"

I gave a polite smile.

"Tom is fine," I said.

Druella's face became carefully blank, aside from its tense smile.

"I…ah, yes. T-Tom. Anyway…I shudder to think what _my_ pureblooded grandchildren will face if the Muggle-lovers get their way—"

"Oh, yes," Bellatrix snapped. "I'm sure Cissy will churn out _lots_ of little purebloods for you, Mother."

"Bella!"

"Let's just ignore the Norwegian Ridgeback in the room, shall we?" she said. "Although I guess it makes sense to offer your _barren_ daughter to Riddle here. Wouldn't want to soil the family tree with Muggle blood."

Conversation ceased immediately. Cygnus's fork clattered on the table, sending a startled jolt through the guests. I took a sip of wine. The endless procession of pepper, saffron, ginger, verjuice, and onions was starting to wear on my palate. I picked at an eel with my knife.

"Do go on, Miss Black."

Bellatrix's voice took on a carefree lilt.

"I guess it's got its compensations, though," she said. "I never would've been able to _enjoy _that Muggle boy otherwise, would I?"

"What Muggle bo-You did _no such thing!_" Cygnus said.

I held up a hand.

"Cygnus, please. I find your daughter very…amusing. So. Bella. Tell me about how you _enjoyed_ your Muggle boy."

She grinned.

"I made a few modifications," she said.

"Oh?"

"Naturally. They're much more docile when you do that, don't you find? Not much good at polluting our bloodlines afterward, either."

"'They'?" I said.

"Oh, dear. Did I let that slip?"

I caught myself grinning. I did my best to disguise it by swallowing a fried almond dipped in that peculiar sugar that Purebloods mix with violets and roses.

Bellatrix snapped her fingers. Kreacher appeared beside her with a crack.

"Kreacher," Bellatrix said. "Absinthe. Now."

Her mother gasped.

"Most certainly _not_," Druella said.

I smiled.

"Go ahead, Kreacher," I said.

The Elf glanced at his mistress. The speed of Druella's nod could have sprained her neck. He muttered something about bossy halfbloods and disappeared before I could curse him properly.

Druella clapped her hands together.

"O-of course!" she said. "That's right! You studied under P-professor Riddle at Hogwarts, didn't you, dear?"

She nudged Bella hard enough to leave a bruise.

Bella, for her part, only looked up at me and stirred her wine with her finger. A lazy smile crossed her face.

"Of course, Mother. Did I ever tell you about Tom's little duel?"

"N-no! That's—It sounds fascinating, Bellatrix. Doesn't it sound fascinating, Cygnus?"

Rapid nods all around.

"Why don't you tell us, Bellatrix?"

And Bella told it well enough. I'd organized a dueling club during Bellatrix's fourth year, and had invited Flitwick to give a "demonstration' with me. Stunted half-goblin though he was, Flitwick could duel with the best of them – he'd won the Turlsson Cup during his younger days.

We'd made an event of it. The House Elves had erected a black dueling platform in the Great Hall, with nominal ticket prices so that the students could watch the spectacle for "charity".

Bellatrix licked a stray bead of wine off her lips.

"…But you didn't duel him for the _charity_, did you, Professor?"

"No."

Bellatrix turned to Druella.

"And you know what, Mother?" Bellatrix said. "For the longest time, I thought that he'd agreed to fight Flitwick to teach that stumpy halfbreed a lesson. That wasn't it either, though. Was it, Professor?"

"Again, no," I said. "Proceed."

Bella's hand tightened around her glass of absinthe when she described the final, mocking _Expelliarmus_ I'd cast on the bleeding little mannequin. Most of the Hogwarts students had gaped at the time. An uneaten porkchop had hung frozen near the Weasley boy's mouth. Professor Dumbledore, sitting at Dippet's right hand as always, had not been amused.

I'd waved and offered Dumbledore a chance to come up and try his luck. Show the students a glimmer of the machine who'd destroyed Grindelwald. He'd gripped the rim of the table, his face redder than that ghastly robe of his. I had almost tempted him.

But not quite.

Bellatrix snickered.

"It's lucky for you that he refused," she said.

"That's _enough_, Bella!" Druella said.

"I only promised I'd act like a proper wife in _public_, Mother."

"You would be wise to follow through on that promise in private as well," I said.

Bellatrix glared at me.

"I see the way you frighten them all," she said. "Like little _children_, doing homage to their half-blood lord. The token Wizengamot pet who's running the house. Somehow."

"And I do not frighten you."

Bellatrix cackled. Her eyes widened as she grinned.

"The times are changing, Professor," she said. "_Your_ kind'll be the first against the wall when the revolution comes. Lord Voldemort knows what to do with _intellectuals_."

"Sounds like a clever fellow," I said.

Nagini nearly spat out a mouthful of chicken. She made a sound that was half snort, half hiss.

Bellatrix frowned.

"Shouldn't you be hibernating, or something?" Bellatrix said.

Nagini hissed under her breath.

"What was that?" Bellatrix said.

Nagini just smiled in response. Bellatrix rounded on me.

"What did she say?"

I waved over a House-Elf carrying a jug of wine. He'd presumably decanted it in the cellar of the Blacks' vineyards in France, and they were known for good taste. I took another bite of my slice of swan breast.

"She said we're not _all_ afflicted with warm blood, excessive body hair, and—ah—overactive sweat glands," I said.

Nagini hissed again.

"…Though she currently regrets her superior sense of smell," I added.

"Ohhhh," Bellatrix said. "You're the catty, jealous female _friend_, aren't you? I've met lots of those."

Here Bellatrix redirected her smirk at me.

"_Lots_ of those," she repeated.

Nagini leaned her Muggle body back and twisted her neck slightly to the side – a holdover from her serpent form.

Bellatrix put a finger to her lips, forming her mouth into an "O".

"Or am I taking _Daddy_ away?" Bellatrix said. "Ah…such a _scowl_! That's it, isn't it? Little Nagini doesn't want me stealing her surrogate papa."

Nagini replied with a stream of rather foul Parseltongue hisses that were unfortunately wasted on present company. Bellatrix leaned across the table, her voice pitched in a stage whisper.

"You must have felt so _special_ when Tom rescued you from that Albanian wizard," Bellatrix said. "Your knight in shining armor, mmh? I've been wondering, though…Did Tommy's Little Girl worry that her hero would choose one of Dragusha's other freaks instead?"

Scales flickered across Nagini's face. Her canine teeth elongated.

"And that _is_ enough," I said.

"Oh, my," Bellatrix said. "I hope I didn't upset your little pet by telling her the tru—AAAAAAAAH!"

It wasn't my best work, but I'd cast the _Crucio_ wandlessly. Good enough for government work, as the American Muggles say.

Narcissa was covering her mouth and trembling. Cygnus and his wife were frozen. Bellatrix tumbled out of her chair, and her contortions sent her into collision with the shelves of fine china. A few bowls crashed into the floor. Ceramic pictures of the Black Crest exploded into hundreds of bits.

I crooked my finger at a House-Elf.

"Er…Matkin, isn't it?" I said.

The Elf was still goggling. He flinched as Bellatrix screamed again.

"Ahem. Matkin?"

"Y-yes?"

"You have hippocras, don't you?"

"I…"

"I'd appreciate some right now," I said. "A few wafers as well, if you please."

Another shriek. Bellatrix was striking her head across the floor, presumably to escape consciousness. Her forehead was getting rubbed raw.

"B-b-but—" the Elf said.

"And honey," I said. "It's always better with honey."

The House-Elf's head jerked in what could charitably be called a nod. It vanished.

I released the curse. Bellatrix lay there for a while, hiccoughing with little moaning sobs. Her hair was matted over her face.

Narcissa stared at her father, open-mouthed. Her eyes were wide. Cygnus did not meet them.

"Daddy…You—you just _let_ him," Narcissa whispered. "R-right there on the—"

Lucius squeezed her shoulder. He was a reliable fellow, young Lucius. His skill with a wand had already earned him a place at the head of one of my firing groups.

"Cygnus," I said.

The Black patriarch's attention jerked toward me.

"You haven't been socializing with your fellow purebloods enough, Cygnus," I said. "Your recent dinner with Mr. Kincaid was not strictly necessary for your Wizengamot duties."

"Th-that's…" he said.

"Nevertheless, I forgive you."

I bowed to the hostess, exchanged a few pleasantries with the others, and stood up to leave. Everyone else rose with me. (Well, except for Bellatrix.) I waved them down again, and then took Cygnus by the arm. We headed for the hallway.

"I beg your forgiveness, My Lord. I wouldn't have recommended Bellatrix at all if you hadn't asked for her first. She's…foolish. And drunk. We'll punish her severely. I swear it."

"Cygnus—"

"And…And if I'd known she would do this, I would have recommended Narcissa from the first! She's pliable, and fertile, and if you could just _please _show Bellatrix mercy, I'd be happy to—"

"I find Bellatrix positively delightful."

"Wh-what?"

"It's a pity she can't discover my role in our little…movement yet. Speaking of which, I'll see you later this evening at the Meeting. We have a few major operations to discuss."

I opened the door.

"Oh, and Cygnus?"

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Give Bellatrix the hippocras and wafers I ordered."

Nagini graced Cygnus with her still-fanged smile, and brushed past him. He closed the door behind us with a bow.

We headed for our respective transportation arrangements. The night air was crisp, but not so crisp that it didn't have its share of fog. All very atmospheric. Nagini fell in step behind me.

Nagini hadn't said anything, though. She held "her" arm up to the lamplight, inspecting her next meal. But there was something else…

"For the record," I said, "I wouldn't have picked anything else from Dragusha's menagerie."

Still silent.

"You know why, don't you?" I said.

Nagini shook her head, though she kept her eyes forward.

"Because they were just animals," I said. "I didn't want a _pet_."

Finally, Nagini glanced at me, and then looked away again.

_"Ssssorry about tonight_," she said.

"Just remember why I made you a horcrux in the first place," I said. "I'm going to need _somebody _to keep me company in the centuries to come. And frankly, the Basilisk isn't much of a conversationalist."

The faintest smile appeared on her stolen face.

_"Jussssst as well, ssssssince you're awful at making friendsssssssss."_

"Indeed."


	3. Chapter 3

Is it unusual to feel nostalgic for a home that one never had?

Muggles, for whatever reason, don't have this problem. They go to school, find a job, and get married whenever they can afford a house. Like rodents fleeing to a new warren. The past means nothing to them.

Wizards, on the other hand, can meet most of their material needs with magic. They marry their Hogwarts sweethearts - or pine in unrequited love for decades. IIf a Wizard _does_ settle away from his family, he'll generally buy a house as old and as close to his childhood haunts as possible. Muggles grow up. Wizards just age.

One would have thought that an absentee father, a dead mother, and a bit of familicide would have spared me that life cycle.

Speaking of familicide…

The Gaunt shack didn't need wards to drive away most Muggles. To begin with, it was almost camouflaged by trees. Branches gripped the windows like fingers around a bird's throat. The glass panes were small and dirty. Nettles tapped them whenever enough wind got through the canopy, although it seldom did. Moss had crawled over the walls.

Squirrels occasionally scampered into the rafters through the holes left by broken roof tiles. Nagini appreciated the steady supply of meat.

Yet for a "shack" it was intolerably roomy. Small though it was, the Gaunt shack had been built in the Middle Ages. Its reception hall was larger and more open than a modern house, designed for a time when people could tolerate each other's presence.

On the off-chance that some preternaturally determined Muggle visitor ignored the Grimms' Fairy Tales ambience, dear Uncle Morfin had been thoughtful enough to nail a snake to the door.

Nagini glared at the dead snake. Contrary to popular opinion in Wizarding Britain, snakes can indeed scowl, though they do it more with their eyes than their mouths. The body she'd been using at the Blacks' house was now just a person-sized lump halfway down her esophagus. It was already shrinking. My Horcrux had a rather remarkable metabolism.

I let my fingers play over the Gaunt ring.

A figure stepped out of the shadows – dark haired, dark-eyed, and only slightly less pale than the light-haze made him appear.

"Well, well..." he said. "Tommy."

I gave him a thin smile.

"So," I said. "The would-be squire of Little Hangleton deigns to grace his wayward son with an appearance, eh?"

His gloves tightened.

The simulacrum was almost too perfect. My father's spirit always appeared _exactly_ as I imagined him: gray tweed jacket, vest, and leather riding boots. That, more than anything else, always made me wonder about the Gaunt ring's supposed powers. The real world never gives us what we want.

"Whatever you're after, be quick about it," he said. "If I'd wanted you to keep summoning me like this, I wouldn't have abandoned you and your mother in the first place."

"Oh dear," I said. "I do _so _hope I'm not keeping you from eternal bliss in the spirit realm?"

My father grinned. His teeth had always been bright white - even at the end, when I'd bathed him and his worthless new family in the green light of the _Avada Kedavra_. Perfect teeth. Uniform. Not a molar out of place. It had once been my smile, before my face had flattened and my lips had thinned _just _enough to ruin it.

"Careful, Tommy my lad," he said. "Your fear of abandonment's showing."

"You would be wise not to antagonize me, Father."

He ambled through the pantry, eyeing platters of magically preserved rye bread and cheese. His fingers drummed on the bricks.

"Still like a packrat's den," he said. "You're living in that magical school these days, aren't you? How many trophies have you hoarded there? I wonder…"

A low hiss came from Nagini.

"…Still trying to fill up all those empty places in your life, hm? Oh, come on, Tommy. Don't give me _that_ look. One would think you didn't enjoy these family meetings-"

"Enough."

My father just chuckled, tracing one of the architectural moldings with his thumb. The carving had come from the days when the Gaunts were a great house: a dragon rampant, made of lead. One of its wings had snapped off.

"You're getting married," he said. "Oh, yes. I heard. And I'm so very proud. My perpetually twelve-year-old son's finally started to notice girls, eh? Only took you forty years."

My fingers itched. Unfortunately, _Crucio _couldn't affect the specters produced by the Gaunt ring. I smiled instead.

"Doubtless a trait I picked up from my father's side," I said. "You'd like her."

"Oh?"

"Has a taste for bewitched boys just like dear old mummy. Like father, like son, mmhm?"

His finger stopped tracing. Recovered quickly, though. Never mind. Point.

"You didn't get your brains from your mother, boy."

"We are rather alike, aren't we?"

"Guess so," he said. "Of course, I never doubted that my parents loved _me_."

My father kicked up his feet on one of the Gaunt tables: a wooden board laid on trestles. He stretched his hands toward the fireplace, where some coal was burning. An affectation. The dead don't feel cold.

I forced my hands to loosen. Again.

"So what's next?" my father said. "Planning to show off your fiancee to your inbred mother? And…hah! Why not? Summon me for your family gathering, too. 'Course, if it doesn't work out, I bet that snake of yours would _love _to find the nearest corpse and bed you -"

"_Avada Kedavra_."

The green light passed through him. It hit an iron candlestick, which wobbled. My father shook a finger. And he was _still_ smirking.

"Now, now, Tommy," he said. "Tem-per."

"Then don't be more revolting than usual."

Nagini was silent – uncharacteristically so, although she never spoke much around the older Riddle. Something about his eyes. I'd never been certain what she'd meant. In any event, as was often the case, Nagini had stiffened. She was coiled back in the corner.

My father clapped his hands.

"Tell me about this _war_ of yours, hm?" he said.

"You'll find out in a moment. We have a meeting. You'll stay out of the way."

He scowled.

"I wasn't talking about your masked costume club."

"Death Eaters," I said.

"Even worse," he said. "Nonsense, all of it. It's _politics_ that matter. Your grandfather knew that. Still wheeling the Opposition away in that magical parliament, are you?"

"Wizengamot."

My father shrugged.

"Parliament. Wizengamot. Doesn't matter, really," he said.

My smile was almost genuine this time.

"That's what _you_ think, Muggle."

"Ha!" he said. "Hahaha! Don't try that on _me_, boy. It might work all right for your magical thugs, but we aren't stupid. Are we, Tommy?"

I sighed.

"I suppose not."

Nobody spoke for a while.

"Two hours," he said at last. "And then, I'm leaving."

"Fair enough."

* * *

Candles flickered in the distance. A procession of lights wound its way through the woods like a basilisk.

I watched men and women approach, wearing silver masks. Under those masks, some of our more enterprising members had polyjuiced themselves for added security.

Most of their "identities" were trophies. Amycus Carrow wore the dimpled face of Walter Halleck, who'd worked in the Ministry before Carrow had killed him in Yugoslavia.

Carrow's sister Alecto had done something similar with Adelaide Baumgardner. Miss Baumgardner had been a tan, dark-haired witch back in Hogwarts. Quite pretty. Alas, she'd put her gifts to use by seducing Alecto Carrow's boyfriend during their seventh year. It hadn't ended well.

And then there were the rest: Nott, Rosier, Lestrange, Karkaroff, Dolohov, Greyback, Yaxley…

Death is a powerful symbol among the Wizarding world's oldest families. The twin prongs of plague and flagellant vigilantism had never vanished from the Pureblood consciousness. The Burning Times had only deepened the split, and long lifespans – combined with low fertility – had sealed it. Never mind an industrial revolution. We'd never had a Renaissance.

Small wonder, then, that our meetings resembled Pureblood funerals. I gazed over a sea of black cloth. Black ribbons fluttered in the wind. Black hoods and black gloves kept their owners warm. Breaths condensed.

Nott's entourage wore sprigs of rosemary pinned to their sleeves – an ironic symbol of mourning for the Aurors they'd killed in this war. One of Nott's servants bore a banner suspended from a silver staff, which had been wrought in the shape of a holly branch. Its "leaves" glinted in the torchlight. Their jagged edges narrowed to pinpoints. Delicate. Sharp.

In place of a coffin, we'd draped the Gaunts' dinner table in shrouds, topped with rue and rosemary. It would serve as a pulpit, of sorts. I wrapped my fingers around its edges.

"Well…" I said. "We'd best start the meeting, hadn't we?"

I passed around a silver bowl.

Funerary cakes are an old custom in the Wizarding world – pastries shaped like skulls, coffins, and hourglasses. Each man and woman took one.

Had he lived long enough to report back, I suspect that a Muggle anthropologist would have found my adaptations rather interesting. Fragments within the cakes glimmered silver. I'd dipped them in a Pensieve.

"Mementoes of death," I said. "Sweetened with the last memories of our enemies. Let us eat."

They did, and quickly. Bites of pastry were stuffed into mouths and swiftly swallowed. They were washed down with claret and brandy to avoid the taste. A shudder ran down the line. Alicia Mulciber had a few dry heaves before she managed to gag it down.

I savored my piece. Those who'd finished waited in silence. Torches guttered.

To his dying day, I don't think Nobby Leach understood how a hundred Pureblood families dominated a mixed society overrun with Muggles.

Nobby was a Londoner, you see. Bourgeois at that. Most Mudbloods were, and even rural Mudbloods had only lived in the pale, dying shadow of the old squirearchy.

When I say that Nobby was bourgeois, I mean it in the most derogatory sense. His family was middle class, yes. But that is not my point. Many Purebloods – my own charming family included – barely lived above the Muggle poverty line.

No, the problem was deeper. Nobby and the rest of his ilk saw Wizarding Britain like a Muggle executive might see it: as a set of curious manners to be aped in the climb for social status. Nobby succeeded on the latter score. He affected the Pureblood drawl better than Abraxas himself, and could trace lines of descent like a horse breeder.

Nobby never quite figured out what those lines meant, though. He assumed that Purebloods were merely prejudiced, wealthy people. Or, worse, that they were racists in that fashionable Muggle sense (which had become decidedly _unfashionable _by the time Leach rose to power). Leach's zealots – mostly young Muggleborns who'd read too much Fanon and Sartre for their own good – only muddied the issue further.

Indeed, if Nobby had stopped trying to get his bowing-depth right and developed the same sense of history that most Purebloods took for granted, he might have caused us more trouble. A Muggle historian could have told Nobby Leach _exactly_ what he was dealing with. Even a Shakespearean scholar might have recognized it.

Purebloods didn't have "connections". They didn't "schmooze". They had dependents and retinues. Their servants weren't hired from the proletarian mass of service-workers. They were the lord's men - often wealthy Purebloods in their own right - who saw themselves as extensions of their patron.

Many wore their master's coat of arms on their lapels, just as they'd worn the House colors at Hogwarts. Indeed, the latter had prepared them for the former. Matching clothing was not unknown. Lestrange usually decked his men in slate gray robes.

When one of the poorer servants in a Great House died, her name might be recorded in the _Daily Prophet_ as follows:

"Nursemaid of Lord Malfoy's House. 79. Died of dragon pox."

Note what is absent.

The Purebloods had been crafting themselves into Death Eaters for the past seven centuries. All they'd needed was a push.

Even their weapons were close at hand: all of them carried wands, just as they'd carried them on the dueling-fields of Hogwarts. By the 1970s, Muggleborn Wizards had already adapted dueling as a _sport_. Nonsense. Purebloods had always seen it for what it was: an exercise in violence, like Durmstrang _mensur_ bouts.

The mental difference between a Pureblood and a gang member – or an orphan at my old "home", when you get right down to it – was never large.

I recall an incident in the Wizengamot during Leach's early tenure as Chief Warlock. Leach had been sharpening his tongue on the Mulciber patriarch for most of the afternoon, but had made the mistake of calling the old man a liar. Mulciber had challenged him right there. Leach had laughed and refused.

Mulciber had been eighty-two, and dead serious.

And you know? I'd bet two to one that Mulciber would have killed him.

I leaned forward.

"Men and women of the old order," I began.

Cheers. Torches rose and fell.

"We will speak tonight of _expropriation_," I said. "Some of you, I know, oppose it on principle. You confuse it with theft."

I made a point to look for Abraxas in the crowd. He wilted in his velvet robes.

"These objections stem from either blood-treason or stupidity," I said. "The stupidity of doubting your leadership's decisions is self-evident, of course. An organization like ours can't function with a thousand little leaders. We're not Muggles."

A smattering of laughter followed. Much of it nervous.

"As for my charge of blood-treason," I said, "many of you think that expropriating the Muggle-lovers' property is the same as stealing. Let me explain the thought process that goes into that conclusion…"

I raised my voice. Higher. Scratchier. Mocking.

"…'Stealing,' thinks the blood-traitor, 'involves taking other people's things. So does expropriation. So they must be the same thing.' Am I right?"

Confused looks.

I scratched the wall with my fingernails. Several Death Eaters winced. The Gaunt shack's southern wall was made of slate. My nails rasped across it like a chalkboard.

"It's a dirty, Mugglish way of thinking!" I snapped. "Logical! You tally up _precise_ little words and come to a _neat_ conclusion. You're all infected with it."

This - as far as it went - was actually true. Wizards show a dearth of logical thinking that verges on a mental disability. A few even use logic-puzzles involving potions as security devices.

"Those who support Mudbloods forfeit their right to wealth," I said. "We're just collecting what belongs to the Wizarding World."

A few nods.

"From now on, firing group leaders will hold reeducation sessions every week," I said. "One four-hour session per member. Your comrades will examine you for Mudblood thoughts, and…correct them. When necessary, I will permit limited use of the _Cruciatus_."

More shudders.

With party discipline thus disposed of, I moved on to other details. Magical artifacts cost money. We needed galleons and sickles for the war effort, and didn't want to spend our own. Nor could we break into Gringotts.

Fortunately, Wizarding society had plenty of rich blood-traitors. They'd proved themselves unfit custodians of their wealth by supporting Leach and his Mudbloods. Now they'd pay for it. In many ways. Wizards have an exaggerated regard for their homes. I have never understood that mentality, but it was remarkably useful for terrorizing people.

Besides, we'd already incorporated several new firing groups, and they needed experience. Assaults on private estates permitted them to make beginners' mistakes. Finding an escape route was usually much easier, for one thing.

Now, then…

"Yaxley! You've brought the prisoner I asked for?" I said.

Yaxley nodded. He shoved a hooded woman into the center of the group. She was dressed like she'd stepped off a Muggle campus: gray sweater, bobbed hair, and felt skirt. Her hands were bound. Without the benefit of vision, she wobbled on high heels until someone pulled off the hood.

She looked more or less as I'd expected: a lean face and thick-rimmed glasses. I fingered my wand.

"Ahhh…" I said. "Miss von Knox-Browne. We have a few questions for you."

Her face went white.

"Y-you! You're that English terrorist! The reactionary one. Volsung-Vidkun-Volder…something. Oh-shit-oh-shit-oh-shit—"

"Mmh. Yes. Now, if you wouldn't mind answering a few questions about your…academic work?"

She froze. The trembling started a few moments later.

"I…I didn't do anything! I'm j-just a t-teacher! Look…I…um, I know what you're after, okay? I know you think I've written some pretty subversive stuff, but—"

"Subversive of the English language, perhaps…"

"…Um, w-what?"

I stroked her cheek with my wand, raising goosebumps in the process. She shied away. The gray sweater rumpled rather like a tortoise's neck when it retreats into its shell.

"Ten words, Miss von Knox-Browne," I hissed. "_Quasi-Magical Ways of Being in the Dialectical Narrative Context._"

The professor became stiff as a board. Her eyes widened.

"But that's—"

"Fortunately for you, Lord Voldemort is gracious," I said.

She looked up at me. Hope no doubt rushed through every nook and cranny of her little heart.

"You have exactly thirty seconds to explain why - as you put it - Brunevald's 'mythopoetical totality verges on Grindelwaldian hubris'," I said. "And then tell me what those words mean."

"Um…A-actually it's B-Brunevald's _critique_ of mythopoetical t-t-totality that verges on Grindelwaldian—"

"Twenty-seven seconds, Miss von Knox-Browne," I said.

"I…But I _can't_ just explain such a complicated theory without going into how class isn't meaningless so much as a collapse of the dialectic of class (insofar as the premise of cultural capitalism suggests that art is capable of form) and since Barthes' idea of mythologies holds, I'd have to—"

"Twenty seconds, Miss Knox-Browne."

Her voice became detestably shrill. Grating, even.

"Okay, okay!" she said. "So first off, any associated supporting element should be regarded as a problem of phonemic and morphological analysis, right? And…um, note that I mean that a discussion of _deviance_ isn't subject to the ultimate standard that determines the accuracy of any proposed grammar. Right. So…uh—we'd assume that the fundamental error of regarding functional notions as categorical—oh _SHIT_! Do-over! Do-over! I forgot to mention the appearance of parasitic gaps in domains relatively inaccessible to ordinary extraction is unspecified with respect to a general convention regarding—"

"Seven seconds."

"Inasensemanydedeconstructivi smsconcerningtheabsurdityand somewouldsaythedefiningchara cteristicofconstructivesocie tymaybefoundThesubjectisinte rpolatedintoasubsemioticistc ulturaltheory—"

"_Avada Kedavra_."

Green light flashed. Miss von Knox-Browne's wandless attempt to _crucio _my ears ceased.

"Consider your work peer-reviewed, Miss von Knox-Browne," I said.

Yaxley dragged the corpse off for Nagini, who was still feeling rather hungry. Everyone else was silent. I wasn't sure whether they were intimidated or deeply confused.

Abraxas ahem'd at my elbow. I looked at him.

"Problem?" I said.

"Was that…ah…_strictly_ necessary, My Lord?" he said.

"Who's the Dark Lord here, Abraxas?" I said. "You, or me?"

"Y-You are, of course. I just—ah, never mind."

His shoulders were hunched halfway to his ears. Cold and fear both tend to do that. I gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"Science advances one funeral at a time, Mr. Malfoy."


	4. Chapter 4

I arrived at the Wizengamot at four in the afternoon. Bellatrix accompanied me. We'd shared several delightful monosyllables over lunch, at the Witch's Broom.

"Time to keep up appearances, _dear_," I said.

"Spoken like a Muggle," she said. "And speaking of Muggles…"

She pointed. I followed her gesture.

A man in robes trimmed with marten fur was shuffling up to us. Decorative slashes ran down the fabric. Red _sarcenet_ peeked through from the gaps.

His jacket also had a Vision-Distorting Charm attached. Like a toned-down funhouse mirror, it appeared to narrow the waist and widen the shoulders.

Nobby Leach.

"Ho, there!" Leach said. "The Great Marvolo cometh!"

It was a nickname that the Mudblood politicians had chosen for me. Gutter-humor. To Muggle ears, many traditional Wizarding names sound like they belong to circus performers.

I bolted on a smile.

"Why yes," I said. "And unless my eyes deceive me, I'm in the presence of the aptly named Mr. Leach."

He laughed. We shook hands. I'd _Scourgify_ them later.

Leach bowed deeply when he saw Bellatrix. The hem of his robe scraped on the ground. Good velvet, too – four galleons per pound, at least.

Ah. The roué strikes. He'd cut quite a path through the Wizarding world's wealthy women – even some of the Purebloods.

"And you must be Bellatrix," Nobby said.

Bella nodded, but didn't curtsey.

"Charmed," she said.

If she was, then it must have been something like the Slug-Vomiting Charm. She looked vaguely ill.

"This is the Reformist I've been telling you about," I said. "The one who wants to turn us all into Muggles."

"So I gathered," Bella said.

…Though I caught a different message from Bella's surface thoughts – the ones that she'd allowed past her Legilimency shields: _What do you mean "us", halfblood?_

Leach's eyes were flicking from Bella to me, and back again. He rocked back on his heels in that not-so-charming, countrified way of his. One that he _certainly_ hadn't picked up from his parents.

"I remember the first time I found out about magic," Leach said. "Did you ever hear about it?"

"_Ad nauseum_, actuall—" I said.

Leach waived his hand.

"Oh, I'll wager you've heard my stump speeches already," he said, with one of his too-broad smiles. "But ne'er mind that. I was eleven, you see. Woman knocked on our door dressed like a witch. _Just_ like a witch. You're half-Muggle. You know what I'm talking about. Pointy hat and all."

I ground my teeth and tried to imagine Nobby writhing under the _Cruciatus._ Why, yes. Yes, you Mudblooded little bastard. I was, in fact, half Muggle. Reminder appreciated.

Do not misunderstand me. I am not over-fastidious about my parentage _per se_. Intentional insults are another matter.

"Anyway," Leach said. "The witch turned our gas lamp into a salamander. These were the old days, mind – my parents still used gas lamps. More electricity nowadays. But where was I…?"

"The witch," Bellatrix said.

Bella gave me her own smile. From another person, it would have looked obviously fake. A polite façade to hide her annoyance at the man taunting her husband-to-be. But dear Bella had always been too clever a liar. The smile only _appeared_ fake. Though Bella had restored her Legilimency barriers, I could still imagine what was behind them: _Seethe there in silence, halfblood. Ha. Ha._

Nobby winked at her. Bella's lip curled. I've often wondered whether Leach had cultivated that oh-so-informal manner he used around some Purists and most Muggleborns (but _never_ his own Pureblooded supporters) specifically to annoy people like Bellatrix Black. Never trust a banker's son who can speak like a Pureblood and curse like a workman.

"Oh…" Leach said. "Of course. The witch. Transfigured a lamp into a salamander, like I said - black speckles and everything."

He shook his head, and laughed. It was a rueful laugh, like a sage remembering old follies. Bushy eyebrows furrowed. A fine performance.

"You know what I thought to myself, Mr. Riddle?" Leach said. "Even then?"

"Yes, but since you've gone this far already—"

Nobby looked directly into my eyes. Drat. Decent Legilimency, too.

"I thought it was a terrible pity that you magic folk kept such wonderful things locked up," he said. "Still do."

"Charming story," I said. "Shall I tell you mine? It's not embalmed for public consumption yet."

Nobby shrugged. That signature twinkle appeared in his eye.

"If you like."

"I fought your kind for eleven years before I met another wizard," I said. "I suppose you're brave enough in large groups – like locusts. Do you know how many chocolate frogs I ate on my first trip to Hogwarts? Six. Vomited twice. It was worth it. Nobody tried to steal them from me. Odd, that."

Leach shook his head "sadly". Like most of Leach's emotions, the word deserves its quotation marks.

"We all had to deal with rationing back then, Tom," he said.

"And how much did your Cambridge-educated father make annually, again?"

The question barely slowed him down.

"Last time I checked, you don't look like much of a street rat anymore," Leach said. "Pureblood wife and everything. Or did you get your encyclopedic knowledge of wine vintages from your friends at Wool's Orphanage? Hm?"

_Crucio him._

_Crucio him._

_Crucio him._

"How very amusing," I said. "Because as I see it, you people are still trying to stealwhat's mine."

"You don't say?"

"Oh, you're right about one thing, Leach: Magic _is_ wonderful. It's the most wonderful thing in the world. And it's not _yours_ to gobble up, you greasy little Mudblood."

"But it's not yours either. Is it, Tom?"

"I was born for it. Unlike you, I have a Gaunt—"

"Do you know what a snow globe is?" Leach said.

"That's…I hardly see how it's relevant, but—"

"Little glass spheres with water and bits of fake snow in them," he said. "You tilt them, and it's like a separate world—"

"I know what a snow globe is."

"Then forgive me for pointing out that Wizarding Britain will only ever be 'yours' in the same sense that you can own a snow globe," he said.

"What?"

"They're very pretty, snow globes," Leach said. "You know? You can turn them any which-way you want. Shake them. Smash them to shards, even. But you can't really live inside one. Not as a home. Can you, Tom?"

"Get out of my way, Leach."

He stepped aside with a smirk, sweeping his arm like an usher. The ruffs on his sleeve flashed out from his cloak. They reminded me of a rabbit's white tail. And just as distracting. More theatre.

"By all means, Tom."

I headed for the Wizengamot chamber. Quickly. Nobby's pipe habit had done him no favors in the speed department.

Bella was walking beside me. High-heeled boots clicked through the stone corridors. Even without the layers of half-removed spells that had accumulated in the halls, sounds echoed strangely in that building. If you stood at just the right spot, you could hear someone whispering across the room. Wizards make poor architects. Nobody had thought to consult Muggles with experience in auditorium construction.

Bellatrix sidled up to me, smiling her teasing smile.

"My _dearest_ fiancé," Bellatrix said. "What, exactly, was that charming gentleman referring to when he mentioned an orphanage?"

"I…Never mind that."

She tightened her grip on my arm, and jerked.

"I _said_: what was he referring to?"

"The subject is closed."

Bellatrix twisted from one side to another like a little girl with a secret. Bits of garnet sewed into her gown clicked.

"Was my dearest, _darling_ husband-to-be kicked around by ickle Muggles as a boy? Mm?" she said.

The lilt had crept into her voice again.

Bella's mood shifts were remarkable. A product, no doubt, of too many sublimated urges to strangle her rather tiresome family. It was common enough among Pureblood girls in those days – the angrier they'd get, the more cheerfulness they'd force into their canned smiles.

Bella was also a bit of a lunatic, so there was that, too.

On that note, I've never understood the air of false obedience that Pureblood women affected. Never. It had almost no grounding in day-to-day life – Pureblood "lords" generally allowed their wives to run the finances, and didn't have recourse to physical violence. But the affected submission was certainly _there_.

"Careful, Bella," I said. "You might just become the sweet, passive-aggressive wife that your mother always dreamed you'd be."

Bella snorted.

"You're such a Muggle."

"Pardon?"

"Filthy little boys," she said. "They either keep their wives at home – they _know_ their wives have better business sense, and would kick them out of their shops in a month -"

"Or?"

Bella gave me a nasty smile. Like somebody swallowing lemon juice.

"Funny how it's always weak men who want 'spirited' wives, don't you think?" she said.

"Nonsense. _A woman fit to be a wife is much too good to be her husband's servant_," I said. "That's your Pureblood proverb talking. Not mine."

Bellatrix locked eyes with me, and licked the rim of her lips.

"_A wife, a dog and a walnut tree…_" Bella said. "_The more you beat them, the better they be_."

And that, I'm afraid, was the state of Pureblood gender thinking circa 1971.

In _theory_.

Reality was different. Pureblood women wouldn't have hesitated to cast bludgeoning charms on their husbands if they'd had actually _tried_ anything like Muggle men did_._

Rhetoric, though…Ah, rhetoric. _That _was another matter. Pureblood "philosophy" about proper family relations had become shriller with the Mudblood influx. More wooden. I recall Chauncey Quince - a red-faced, gouty idiot of a Pureblood - chuckling that Muggle feminism had made his wife and daughters take their roles seriously for once.

(It also made them reluctant to participate in my firing groups, which irked me to no end.)

More to the point, one shouldn't ignore the source. Bella was always…odd when it came to pain.

Very, very odd.

"Do I detect a rebuke for hypocrisy?" I said.

"Do I detect guilt?"

"You upset Nagini," I said. "I would have killed anyone else. You got off with a _Crucio_."

Bella made a great show of daintily wiping a bit of dust from the wainscoting. She'd tilted her head up. All the better to look down her nose at me, probably.

"Oh, dear," Bella said. "Should I expect a _Crucio_ every time I poke your ego? Shall I call you Lord Husband from now on…Like Lydia did in Beedle the Bard's _Tale of the Froward Wife?_"

The character Lydia, incidentally, had cast a castration curse on her husband at the end of the story.

Point.

"My ego is negotiable," I said. "For now, anyway. Nagini's isn't."

Bella brushed a hand along my face. It was very soft, and very cold. Like silk left in a snowdrift.

"You're quite the doting father," Bella said. "Makes sense…from an orphan."

I smiled back.

"Well, it's not as if we can produce any _regular_ children," I said. "Is it, Bella dear?"

It took a moment or two for that to register. When it did, Bella's smirk froze. Lips rose slightly, baring teeth that – from long practice – _almost_ created the impression of an ugly smile. It wasn't, of course. Her breaths were slightly heavier.

And I'd seen that twitch in the wand-hand before. A duelist's twitch.

"We will _discuss_ this later," she said.

"I look forward to it."

* * *

The Wizengamot chamber smelled of wood, dust, and sweaty robes. But mostly dust.

The room was an octagon. Its walls were dull, grayish-black brick. Many had been chipped or weathered, and they were uneven. Plaster clung to the upper edges.

The Minister's podium rose in the center, a cross between a judge's bench and a lectern. Behind the podium, a Byzantine mural was painted into a recess in the wall. Candles illuminated it a yellowish-gold.

A stenographer's quill scratched in the corner.

Reformists filed in at the opposite end of the room, lead by the ubiquitous Mr. Leach. They wore vests, ties, and black robes - the Wizarding equivalent of business suits. Clean-shaven, at that.

The Pureblooded contingent greeted me at the door. They bowed. A Muggle expecting a "Conservative" party might have found himself forgivably confused – the Purebloods wore bright colors, long hair, and occasional beards. They even sat on the left.

So…this was the Wizengamot in 1971. Purebloods and Reformists. Mudbloods and Wizarding families.

But that wasn't _all _of it. Lounging in the middle of the room was the great uncommitted lump: twenty-three "centrists" too Pureblooded to stomach Leach, but too faint-hearted to do what was necessary. Dumbledore stood at their center in his absurd silver robes. Still the Chief Warlock.

For now.

Everyone else in the center wore the traditional purple robes and quadricorn hats that looked like deformed dice. On the bright side, they'd forsaken the (admittedly silly) War-of-the-Dress-Codes between Pureblood and Mudblood. Or at least, they'd tried. Nonalignment _is_ alignment.

Wizengamot members sat on a raised platform rather like an octagonal jury box that had been cut in half. Its edges followed the sides of the room. Green jade columns divided the three factions rather neatly. I peered around one.

The Centrists' layout recapitulated the Wizengamot's as a whole. Radicals sat on the right, close to Leach. Potter was among them. Longbottom, too. And Bones. According to my sources, they'd donated boatloads of galleons to Leach's campaign. He'd be running for Minister soon.

And sitting nearer to the Purebloods…

"Bartemius!" I said. "How are you?"

Bartemius Crouch puckered his lips into his version of a smile. His toothbrush moustache remained still. It was as stiff as his overstarched robes. Crouch set aside a red quill, and stretched a hand (fingernails filed to regulation length) across the aisle.

We shook hands – two up-and-down motions, both firm, but respectable. Crouch's silver watch-chain bobbed with the movement.

"Professor," he said. "Moody's been pestering me for the last two days about arranging another strategy meeting. Death Eater Task Force. You're advising us, I hear."

Not a question, note. Bartemius was a man uniquely endowed with all the answers. And he could give them in any language from Mermish to Troll.

I put just enough strain in my voice to approximate worry.

"I heard that Moody wants to authorize the Unforgivables," I said. "And the Minister's going along with him."

Crouch ran a hand through his hair.

I was struck again by how young a politician Crouch was by Wizarding standards – his hair was still black and reasonably thick despite its short cut. My own generation, in fact. And already head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Crouch had gathered four or five Wizengamot supporters. Young Purebloods like him. Nominal centrists. Emphasis on nominal.

"Mmh," Crouch said. "It's necessary, Professor."

I gave a solemn nod, but made a point of glancing at Nobby Leach. Leach was patting some crony or other on the back. Crouch followed my gaze.

"You'll at _least_ concede that they have a point," I said.

"The Death Eaters?"

"Yes."

Crouch's jaw tightened for a moment, as if chewing on his answer before giving it. He had a broad jaw and a lean face – for all his shoe polish and starch, Crouch had always reminded me of a London cabby.

"There's a new law coming," he said. "Dumbledore and Leach worked on it behind your back. The Minister will enforce it, if it passes. Shouldn't tell you this, but—"

"But your fellow conservatives couldn't stand it."

Crouch nodded.

"Mmh," he said.

"Search and seizure?" I said.

A grimace, and a pause. My guts tightened.

"Yes," Crouch said. "They'll abolish the Purebloods' immunity to searches. Mudbloods never had it to begin with, of course."

"Better that way. Kept 'em in line before."

"Quite," he said.

Repayment time. Everybody has soft spots – weaknesses – and they're a bit like appetites. Feed a man just enough, and he'll be happy. Too much, and his stomach will burst. Punishment and reward both pull the same levers.

Barty's weaknesses were remarkably flexible for a good operator. I preferred to keep him happy.

"Your…ah, wife. How is she?" I said.

For the first time, Crouch smiled. Broadly. Even his toothbrush moustache deigned to participate. His voice almost vibrated with a suppressed chuckle.

"She's _expecting_," he said.

"Again? Wonderful."

Pause.

"I…um, about Bartemius Junior—" he said.

"The tutoring was my pleasure," I said. "I wouldn't want a Pureblood coming to Hogwarts unprepared in two years, would I?"

"I'm just so _busy_, you see—"

"Understandable."

Another pause. Awkward, of course. There was no such thing as a comfortable silence around Bartemius Crouch.

"About Headmaster Dippet," I said.

"Eh? Oh…" he said.

"He's been looking for a book these days," I said. "_Sidereal Resonances and Potion-Making, Translated from the Greek by F.C. Marchbanks_. I've heard that your family library has it."

Crouch frowned slightly. Brows lowered. He wasn't _angry_, though. More like puzzled.

"Why…yes, I suppose we do, but how did you—"

"Get Winky to deliver it to Hogwarts, along with a gift of quail," I said. "Dippet's partial to quail. And Gascon wine. Doesn't matter how it tastes – just make sure it's from a Gascon vineyard. The Headmaster's a bit odd."

"That's wonderful, but why—"

I put a hand on his shoulder.

"Because he'll know that I suggested it," I said. "Dippet will owe you, and both of you will owe me. Unfortunate, but there it is."

"That's all very well, I suppose—"

"You wanted an 'in' at Hogwarts, didn't you?" I said. "And favorable treatment for your son? Well, here it is."

I had him. I _knew_ I had him. Barty Crouch was a lot of things, but he stuck to his commitments like a tick. And he loved getting his way. Rigid almost to a fault, too – unless his wife pressured him, which she only did when his son was involved. Mrs. Crouch was too frail to put her foot down much.

With luck, Bartemius would stay out of my way when the inevitable bloodletting rolled around. He was a useful sort of person. Irritating, but-

"That's…I…well, thank you, Riddle."

Another smile would stray too close to Nobby-Leach-ish wheeling and dealing – in Crouch's eyes, at least – so I gave Crouch my grimmest nod instead. He reciprocated.

That's just the way Crouch was. If a deal _appeared_ proper enough, and solemn enough, and reluctant-but-necessary enough, then it didn't stink of Mudblood horsetrading. Q.E.D.

I think Crouch actually believed this.

"You're welcome," I said.

It was not a typical attitude, by the way. Bartemius Crouch was more Mugglish than any Pureblood I've ever met. More than any _Mudblood _I've ever met, for that matter. Most traded their favors openly. Crouch almost seemed ashamed of them.

Nobby Leach stood up.

A Mudblood nonentity named Marshburn whispered in Nobby's ear. I would have wagered ten to one that Marshburn's "news" was irrelevant. A trick to make Marshburn appear as if he was giving Nobby advice.

Not to deceive _us_, of course. To deceive his own party about his importance.

Mudbloods. Eugh.

But I digress.

"May it please the Chief Warlock, I have a motion," Nobby said.

Dumbledore nodded.

"As we agreed, Mr. Leach."

I clenched my hands. The Reformers smiled at us from across the aisle. Purebloods were whispering. A few shot glances at me when they thought I wasn't looking. Sullen.

My innards felt like they were sinking.

I'd _missed_ this.

"Item One," Nobby said. "A bill abrogating the traditional Pureblood exemption from searches and seizures."

Uproar. Old Mulciber banged a staff on the partition. Abraxas screeched the foulest insults he could think of. Bellatrix was silent and still.

Nobby just pointed his wand at his own throat. His voice boomed over the tumult. My instincts were screaming at me. The bastard had the votes…

...and he wasn't done.

"Item Two," Nobby said. "A bill of attainder for all heads of households supporting Lord Voldemort. Sheltering Death Eaters is an act of _treason_. Lords and Ladies who help him will therefore lose their titles in perpetuity, along with their estates—"

Fourteen magically-enhanced voices drowned Nobby out. Roughly the same number boomed back at us. My eardrums rang.

And it _was_ bad. If Nobby's law passed, it could cripple us.

"Everyone," I said. "Quiet down and—"

Party discipline evaporated at roughly the point that the Jinxes started flying.

I suspected that Bellatrix had cast the first Jinx. If so, I'd been placed in the unfortunate position of owing her a favor.

Not a big one, though. We still needed to stop Leach's bills after the fighting ended, and I had no idea how.

Lances of light – red, green, pink, and orange – flew from one side of the Wizengamot to the other. Spells fizzed on shield charms. No curses yet, at least. No Unforgivables. Thank Merlin for small blessings.

Petty violence was an old tradition in the Wizengamot. And by old, I mean disused for forty years. Until now.

Dumbledore did his best to set up a two-way barrier. The cloudy beginnings of a _Protego Maxima – Fianto Duri – Repello Inimicum_ combination glimmered between the battle didn't work. Too many spells were in the air already.

Something coiled around my legs. I almost Cursed it.

"_Oh Professsssor…."_

I deflected a Finger-Removing Jinx. It hit the Byzantine mural. With literalism not uncommon among spells, it scoured off the painting's thumbs.

"This is _not_ a good time, Nagini."

A blue Jinx of some sort bounced off Nagini's head. And then punched through two layers of wood paneling. Nagini hissed.

She spat a letter at my feet. It was from the Salem Institute.

I shouldn't have read it. Really, I shouldn't have. But morbid curiosity is still curiosity.

For appearances' sake, I hit Bones with a multi-layered _Flipendo_ first. He spun in the air like a perpetual motion machine. Nobby, alas, had already been evacuated.

* * *

_Dear Professor Riddle,_

_It is with profound grief that the Salem Institute writes to inform you of the death of Professor von Knox-Browne. She was found in her home on Saturday. An investigation is ongoing._

_Professor von Knox-Browne was renowned for her work adapting Barthes to the Wizarding context, and for three decades of scholarship culminating in her recent, unfinished __**Azkaban, Gringotts, and the Epistemological Regimen of "Regard": A Excavation of the Wizarding Disciplinary State in its Penological Context**__._

_Happily, Dr. von Knox-Browne will not be forgotten. The Salem Institute, in collaboration with Hogwarts, will be publishing a festschrift celebrating this towering figure in Muggle Studies. _

_Headmaster Dippet has given you the honor of writing half of the essays for the collection. The festchrift's theme – always near and dear to Dr. von Knox-Browne's heart – will be "Marxism's Deappropriation of Subtextual Capitalist Theory Reinterpreted in a Wizarding Idiom." _

_Please be advised that your peer-review of her most recent article should __also__ be completed as soon as possible. We hope to publish her article as the first piece in our collection._

_We thank you in advance for your enthusiastic participation. _

_Sincerely,_

_Gwendolyn Figg, Headmistress, Salem Institute_

* * *

No.

No, no.

Noooooooo.

_"Sssssomething wrong?"_ said Nagini. "_You're sssshaking."_

Nagini peered over my shoulder at the token of the universe's hatred for me and all my works. With a supreme effort of will, I forced my voice steady. As my father once said, there are times when you can only let your head bang on a desk, repeatedly.

"Nagini, dear," I said. "I'm afraid I've just been dropped into Wonderland, and I already killed the White Rabbit."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes: **I went with the fan-theory about Charlus Potter being Harry's grandfather. The arguments seemed decent on both sides, and I would have violated one of the two theories either way, so I figured I'd just pick one and run with it.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

I was watching a scene through the Pensieve.

It was nighttime. Candles flickered in a mansion's windows. Nine Purebloods – two firing teams – breathed in icy air beneath their bedazzled "invisibility" cloaks. They waited at the foot of a hill.

A few shivered. Each carried a _main de gloire_ – the severed hand of a hanged man, pickled and turned into a candle – but these didn't provide any heat.

The candle-wicks had been made of twined hair; usually the former owner's. They burned, yes. A yellow, greasy light. But a Hand of Glorycan only shine for the man holding it. And that dimly.

"How far?" someone whispered.

The leader stopped. He withdrew a map from his cloak. Magical maps were one of the easier items to produce, but they still cost us time and money to manufacture. Far too much time. If you were going to attack a location, though, you needed something that could track everybody in the area. Purebloods didn't use radios well.

"Keep walking," he said.

The Potter Estate's main building was stone, and it had a tin roof, but the moonbeams striking its numerous windows made it glitter like crystal. More glass than wall. A shining prize at journey's end.

One could almost feel sorry for the Potters. So close to Nobby Leach, and so far from the Ministry Building….

The estate's Detection Charms were deactivated easily. The family had also set up Anti-Apparation Wards. These would have been trickier to remove, so the Death Eaters didn't. When a mole has blocked its own escape route, you don't dig it out again. You just send in the weasel.

The Death Eaters crept under an archway. As soon as they'd passed the marble hobgoblins leering down at them, they emerged in a central court. Hexagonal towers stood at each of the corners. The path was paved. Terracotta medallions were scattered throughout. A garden wall shielded the Death Eaters from view.

Technically, old Wizarding families could make plants bloom year-round. In practice, they arranged them like their ancestors had: one garden for each season. It was December. The estate's Winter Garden was full of holly, ivy, juniper, and cypress. A grove of yew had been trimmed into the shapes of manticores and hippogriffs.

The garden must have been designed in Henry VIII's days, before Rovezzano and Company had abandoned Wizarding Britain to its usual Gothic monotony. You only saw Classical sculpture on the Continent these days.

…Not that the current owners would have known about all that.

Even I had only picked up bits and pieces when I'd researched Wizarding estates for tactical purposes. Muggles had designed most of the older ones. There's irony for you.

The Owlery first. The family kept five birds: sharp-beaked animals with white plumage. Pretty. They cooed as they slept. Every so often, one would waddle or shuffle its feathers a bit before tucking its head back into its down.

Five wands glowed green. Five birds lit up. Five bodies flopped onto the ground.

The Death Eaters bypassed the gate and its ridiculous iron knocker. The Potters' ancestors might not have had priest-holes, but the building had its share of hidden entrances.

_"Alohomora."_

Click.

And it opened. Death Eaters stepped through the Potter Mansion's hallways – past the buttery, past the kitchen. Past the bay window with the family's coat of arms. The place must have glowed at midday.

The family would have been asleep by now. Long asleep. Their servants would have gone to bed, too, and the Potters hadn't used House Elves in years. Fortunately, the servants were only Mudbloods, hired in a fit of charity. They wouldn't be missed.

…Well, all but one. The servant who'd given us the mansion's layout and schedules was probably already dreaming about all the gold he'd spend in Monte Carlo. We'd set him up in one of our safehouses.

Ah, Muggleborns.

The mansion had its peculiarities: two secret passages to the servant quarters.

I assume that some lusty lord-of-the-manor had gotten tired of creaking down the steps for his favorite chambermaid back in the old days. In any case, the passage was hidden behind wood paneling connected tongue-and-groove. The door creaked. Slightly. The walls smelled of red mint.

Black robes fluttered down the passageway, each Death Eater's path lit by his own, lonely Hand of Glory. Shadows oozed down the plaster. At the end of the tunnel, green lights flickered. Like on-and-off fireworks. I heard a groan or two. The servants must have been caught in their palettes.

Silence again. It's a lovely sound, silence.

I smiled.

That only left the Floo. When the Death Eaters reached the Great Hall, they found a central hearth. The fire had died. Grayed remains of logs were scattered in the center.

The leader cast a silence ward. It took two _Reductos_ before the fireplace crumbled inward. It was a monstrous, columned mess that had probably been built by Germans fleeing the Wars of Religion on the Continent. (My own ancestors, for all I knew. The Gaunts had always been Pureblooded, but they hadn't been uniformly wealthy. Or English. Or legitimate. All things considered, we were fortunate that Eugene Peverell had fancied immigrant serving girls.)

The second fire team headed up the steps, toward the bedchamber.

They found a chessboard resting on a side-table by the bed. An alabaster king and rook opposed a king and three pawns carved in sandstone. The pieces were abstract. Just spheres piled on top of each other, like vertical necklaces.

Cards lay on the floor. A silver jewelry-casket glinted beside them.

Hm.

"Hello, Death Eater."

A Curse hit the man on the far left. The Death Eater was tall, and his body overturned a dresser when he crashed into it. Robes spilled out of the broken shelves. He didn't get up. Well, that was Crabbe gone.

The leader didn't hesitate. Good.

"Stunners," he said.

Two more spells shot from behind the bed's velvet hangings. Finally, our attacker tripped his way over the linen sheets, firing Curses all the way.

He was a stocky sort, with long brown hair. Gold-rimmed glasses attested to the family's hereditary myopia. Too much inbreeding, no doubt – like the Malfoys' near-albinism, or the Mulciber Jaw.

Charlus Potter.

Unlike the Death Eaters, he apparently wasn't in the mood for minimalist spells.

_"Avada Kedavra."_

Forbidden. Well, technically. Can't say I blamed him. And the rules have always been different for Purebloods, anyway.

It hit a second Death Eater in the chest. Goyle this time. Must've been Goyle – he'd Polyjuiced himself into a larger body to avoid the inevitable awkwardness that size changes create. He failed to consider that bigger bodies are bigger _targets_. Anyway, the spell killed him.

Somebody fired a Curse. Missed. The chair exploded. An embroidered cushion became a cloud of fabric and fiber.

Bolts of light collided with wands. Sparks flew. Spells splashed against invisible shields.

The leader dropped. He'd been hit by the same will-o-wisp glow that I'd always considered the most beautiful shade of green in the world. His mask dented when he hit the ground.

Another hour would need to pass before the Polyjuice Potion could dissipate enough to reveal the real corpse. It would be young, with fine, aristocratic features. Blond. Long-haired. Pale.

I cursed under my breath. I'd already known what had happened at the Potter Estate, but seeing Lucius die firsthand was a different thing. It would complicate my plans enormously.

But Charlus Potter had overcommitted.

Yaxley slashed over Potter's guard with an _Impedimenta_ (which missed) and a _Petrificus Totalus_ (which didn't). Potter went rigid. He thumped on the floor like a block of wood.

Two Death Eaters remained standing. The second firing group was waiting downstairs. Dorea Potter was still about somewhere, and they needed to –

A bang sounded from downstairs. And another.

Yaxley and the other Death Eater traded looks. They raced downstairs just in time to see a ruined Great Hall.

Floorboards were splintered. Crumbly bits of masonry were raining down from the walls and ceiling. A tapestry had fallen, and spells must have punched through it as it fell, since fragments depicting herbs, unicorns, and knotwork were strewn everywhere. A pewter candelabrum had been chopped in half.

Dorea Black was Petrified, but alive. Another Death Eater was dead.

Four total, then. Lucius among them. Barely worth it, and Lucius should have learned not to lead from the front. I'd warned him.

I'd _warned_ him.

I clenched a fist. Wizards and their heroics. Always the young, clever ones, too. What's the use of all that talent if you just intend to die in a mask? And for comrades? So-called? The Wizarding world is full of fools willing to die for you. Let them.

I'd also taught his fiancée since her first year, for what it was worth. Lazy as anything, but Narcissa had been one of the few Slytherins I'd encountered who could cast a Patronus. A koala, of all things. I wondered if she would still be able to cast it after I broke the news.

_Diminuendo'ed_ brooms emerged from mokeskin pouches. Four men – and one woman – sped off into the night, carrying the two Potters. They took separate routes, prearranged.

* * *

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I opened my eyes. The gray mist of Pensieve-memories retreated. Puddles and moist stone replaced them.

I was in the Chamber of Secrets.

In training Death Eaters, the Pensieve ranks a close second to the wand.

A _close_ second. I'd watched almost every attack that my followers had carried out since the beginning of the war – from multiple viewpoints. Just as they'd learned how to fight, I'd learned how they operated in combat…and what they needed to improve.

It had been two days since the armed filibuster in the Wizengamot. Half of the legislators were still recovering from Jinxes. The session would resume in six days. I still had no answer to Leach.

The Chamber easily could have stretched the length of a Quidditch field, though I could only see the closest pillars in the torchlight. The ceiling towered like a cathedral's. In keeping with Salazar's fetish for the color, the flames glowed green, although the light dimmed to nothing before it reached the lowest buttresses.

A serpent motif was stamped everywhere: two snakes, facing each other. Eternity.

Slytherin's stone face glowered from across a pool – like a sort of bearded Mount Rushmore, or an art deco take on Old Man Winter. The statue's beard was wound into thick coils that looked like snakes, _a la _Medusa. Its mouth was open. A bit of squinting would have revealed fifty feet of dark-green scales and yellow eyes.

Snores echoed from inside. Occasional snatches of Parseltongue accompanied them.

The Basilisk's habit of talking in his sleep could reach intolerable levels:

_Riiiiip._

_Kiiiiiill._

_Eaaaaaat._

…And that's if you were lucky, and he was asleep. He talked even more when he was awake.

After half a century of eating the lake's wildlife, Snacca had come to fancy himself something of a gourmand. How Nagini tolerated his endless monologues about the proper texture of salmon, I'm sure I'll never know.

Not that you'd _expect _much better from a snake named "snake". Whatever else he'd been, Salazar Slytherin had not been a very considerate foster-parent.

Speaking of foster-children...

"_Anything?_" Nagini said.

"You're asking whether I have a plan to stop Nobby's new laws?" I said. "Or are you referring to the firing group's performance?"

_"Either. Both."_

"In that case: 'maybe' and 'exemplary', respectively," I said. "Aside from overzealous leadership."

_"What do you mean, 'maybe'?" _Nagini said._ "Do you have a plan, or—"_

"Well, I _do_ have a plan…"

"He has a plan, but he thinks it's a stupid one," a voice said. "And I agree."

A familiar voice.

An obnoxious voice.

My father's specter brushed aside errant strands of black hair with his glove. He grinned. The Chamber was too dark to show his impertinently white teeth clearly.

Nagini's head leaned back. Her coils shifted. She tightened herself around my chair's legs.

"The plan's not stupid," I said. "In fact, it could greatly simplify matters."

My father snorted. He tilted his head toward Nagini, smile still in place. Broader, if anything. My chair creaked as Nagini's coils tightened further.

"Your master here wants to kill Leach," he said.

"How do you—" I said.

My father tsk'ed. He rested his (spectral) hands on my shoulders. I would have shaken them off, but, well, 'spectral'.

"Tommy," he said. "You don't handle frustration well."

I threw up my hands. A slight chill ran up my arms as they passed through my father's, but his presence didn't move an inch.

"It's a sensible option at this point," I said. "If we kill Leach _now_, the Reformists can't scrounge up a credible candidate in time for the election. We'd also stop his proposed bills, since we'd intimidate—"

"Nagini," my father said. "What do you think?"

My mouth was still open, an unfinished sentence waiting there. Nagini had gone still. Even her torso had stopped undulating.

"Well?" my father said.

Nagini didn't reply for several seconds. She'd locked her eyes on my father's. Or he'd locked hers.

"_I…ah…_"

It may have sounded like disjointed hissing to my father, but he smiled at Nagini nonetheless. Nagini had picked up enough human gestures that I suspected my father could read her. He was good at that sort of thing. And he was also good with animals. Always had been.

"My _dear _girl," my father said. "It's time you stopped staring at me as if I'm Tommy's evil twin. Nothing like it. Just one of his victims. So…what do you think?"

_"I…well, you see," _she said. _"I'm Tom's—ah…Your sssssson—Lord Vold-"_

My father leaned over my armchair, resting his chin on his hands.

"And bear in mind that I didn't ask you whether you'd _follow_ him," he said. "I asked whether you think killing Nobby Leach is a good idea. So?"

Nagini opened her mouth twice. She closed it each time, and then looked away without a hiss.

"Maybe I _want_ to kill him," I muttered.

And of course, I'd muttered too loudly.

My father sighed. Might have shaken his head, too, but I'd already resolved to keep staring ahead.

"You and your hooligan politics," he said. "To hear you, someone would think you'd been raised in the London slums. Hardly a Riddle trait."

My father punctuated the statement with a sniff.

"Leaving aside its factual accuracy for a moment, the hypocrisy of that statement astounds me."

"…Says the patricide. Don't play the self-made orphan with _me_, Tommy."

"I—agh. Conceded. Get to the point, though."

And you know, I could actually _hear_ the leer creeping into my father's voice.

"I told you this back in '62, didn't I?" he said. "Work with the respectable, normal–"

"Mudbloods."

"..._normal _people rather than your pet long-haired medieval freaks—"

"Purebloods."

"Yes," he said. "Them. And this despite the fact that you're a halfbreed by their lights – if they weren't so desperate for a leader. But no. You had to get violent in '68. Taught 'em how to riot and march like bloody Chartists. As if you were some sort of Bolshie-"

"Now you _are_ sounding like a Muggle," I said.

He snorted.

"Nonsense," he said. "Look here, boy. I don't much like you. We both know that."

"Oh _yes._"

"But you're interesting. And I'm dead. I don't care whether your Black-Death-and-Inquisition crowd ends up winning. But I can't _abide_ a son of mine acting like a fool."

My fingers punched through the armchair, exposing bits of white fuzz. My fingernails had been hardening and lengthening of late. Another of the Horcrux's many side effects. I'd only made two thus far, though – the diary and Nagini. Still safe. Barely.

I squeezed a fair bit of contempt into my voice. It wasn't hard.

"So…what?" I said. "You think I should back up the Mudbloods?"

"Back the Centrists, you little idiot!"

He'd actually raised his voice. Echoes that only I could hear bounced through the Chamber of Secrets. It took me a moment to process it, and by then, he was already well on his way.

"Dumbledore does it, and he's a Dark Ages menagerie-dweller like the rest of 'em," he said. "_Nobby Leach _did it in '62. We watched him, remember? A so-called 'Mudblood' did it! But you_?_ The half-Riddle, half-Gaunt heir of Slyth-a-whatsit, with Pureblood connections and a 'Muggle' pedigree? Pride of your wizard school? Professor at twenty? No. _You_ backed the people who would've supported you anyway. The lunatic fringe."

"They needed shoring up," I said.

"They needed a dose of reality."

I rolled my eyes.

"And watch them jump ship? No, thank you."

He actually _laughed_ at me. _Dared_ to-

"You think they could bring out some other candidate?" he said. "Who? That greasy pig Malfoy? Cygnus Black? Pah. He'd run away from a cow. The Purebloods would've gone along with you and liked it."

"Not to mention that if the Muggles get their way—"

"The Muggles _will_ get their way, boy," he said. "Sooner. Later. Eventually. Don't convince yourself otherwise."

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

He chuckled softly.

"That's what _my_ father always said," he said. "Your grandfather. You'd have liked him, actually – former MP, spoke six languages, killed lots of Boers back in the Mafeking days. Country squire, you know. Strongest hands I've ever felt. Got 'em from holding reins on horses. He bent an iron poker once. Though I admit he couldn't talk to snakes."

"And this is relevant—?"

"The old fool supported Mosley before the War," he said. "Threw lots of money at the British Union of Fascists. Ah-You know who I'm talking about? Good. That makes it easier. It didn't help us a whit, either, since London's Great Unwashed thrashed 'em at Cable Street. Just like the Muggles will thrash you – unless you compromise."

"Or kick them out of Wizarding Britain for good."

"Ha!" he said. "Hahaha! Good luck, boy. Oh, your 'Muggles' are playing fair _now_, with half the Ministry under their control anyway. What d'you think happens if you win?"

"They'll serve us or die."

"More like they'll use your own tactics against you," he said. "I'm sure you'll have a splendidlittle time hunting down the Muggle equivalent of your Halloween club."

"I look forward to it."

"Then it's a good thing you'll live forever, Tommy," he said. "Since that's _exactly_ how long it'll take you to stamp 'em all out."

_Not if I kill every Mudblood in Britain_, I thought.

I dismissed my father's specter.

He disintegrated into mist, riding boots and jodhpurs first. Nagini was still staring at the ground. I smiled at her, and she looked up briefly.

My father, as an attentive reader might have noticed, liked to talk. This had its uses. Sometimes. I needed silence now, though. Time to think.

"Nagini," I said. "Come."

A pause. Hesitation again. Always after a conversation with Tom Senior. I snapped my fingers, and she slithered to my side.

Nobby Leach would die, and then my life would become easier.

The Minister of Magic would be giving a speech tomorrow evening at one of those uninhabited islands in the Orkneys. He'd babble about unity in the Wizarding world, or some such nonsense. Nobby would be there. So would his supporters.

Moody was handling security on the ground, and I'd "worked" with him on it – in the sense that Crouch and the Minister had forced Moody to cooperate with me. Moody had been thorough, though. The Auror Corps would come out in force – some Polyjuiced, and others in uniform.

"Hm," I said.

I stroked Nagini's head. Most serpents lack mammals' hunger for contact and warmth, beyond the need to regulate body-temperature. Nagini, for whatever reason, was an exception.

She made a soft sound, somewhat like a sibilant purr.

The Aurors would be carrying maps that tracked everybody on the island, marking them with their true names. Polyjuice potion wouldn't work.

The Aurors' Sneakoscopes and Secrecy Sensors wouldn't operate very well, given politicians' penchant for lying and hating each other, but their Foe Glasses would. Or at least Nobby's would.

Worse, the Aurors had warded the island with Anti-Apparation Charms. The only means of transportation would be brooms – which the Aurors could see coming a long way off – and two chimneys in abandoned cottages still connected to the Floo network. I doubted I could set up any Portkeys with Moody breathing over everyone's shoulders. They'd be checking for the Imperius Curse, too.

But…

"Nagini," I said. "How would you like a trip to the Continent, mmh?"

"_It ssssounds nice enough, but why?_"

"I'm going to pay some leftist friends a visit."

The meeting would begin tomorrow, three hours after my last Defence class. The little monsters had an astonishing capacity for wasting my time, but I'd have enough of a buffer. I could arrive with a few minutes to spare.

I had a Time Turner, after all. Going back in time twenty-four hours might not have helped much in duels - paradoxes prevented that sort of thing – but it worked wonders for alibis. Or rapid preparation.

It promised to be an interesting outing.


End file.
